Having my way with Ulysses

Delectatio Morosa

I was a lamb among the holy flock that Dominic leads on the path where one may fatten well if one does not stray off. 11:40 am

No, not morose as in gloomy or sullen.  Morose from moror, a delay in time.  Not up on your Latin?  Keep in mind that one of my usual attributes is that of angels beating people about the head with my books.  Study up, you don’t want a particularly large copy of Summa Theologica crashing down on your skull.  And those copies the angels use — they are illuminated!  Heavy.  So is pleasure subject to time?  This is what I was getting at and the answer is yes and no.  It is and it isn’t.  You see?  Because The Philosopher says delight is a kind of movement, and all movement is in time, pleasure is subject to time.  But he also says that no one takes pleasure in time, so it is not subject to time.  Both.  How can this be you ask?  Careful, the angels are hovering.  I see a particularly weak armed one too struggling with an oversized edition of The Summa Contra Gentiles.  Pleasure of itself is not in time, because it not a movement, but if this pleasure be subject to change, then it will be in time accidentally.  So what delights you?  That will be the thing to make the difference.  If it is a good obtained, it will not be in time, but if there is movement of the imperfect in your pleasure, then, well, it is subject to time.  And there we get into sin.  The more morose, the more mortal the sin.  Does that help?  Do you need a good whack in the head with a book?  Would you enjoy a whackin the head with a book?  Careful with your answer, the angels are listening.  Ay me.  I’m hungry.  You know, delectation denotes a movement of the appetitive power.  Could use a little wine too.  I am a touch purple now from wine, did you know that?  They boiled me in it to render my fat from my bones.  They had to, I was too corpulent to be moved, so they transformed me into a more portable form.  I hope they drank some wine themselves, after the job they had trying to get me down the stairs and then the more difficult job of dislodging me from the staircase.  Hard to accomplish that with proper dignity.  Ultimately they broke open a window and dropped me down.  Did no harm to my bones, my flesh was ample enough to break the fall.  I wonder what they did with my rendered fat?  Light a candle, will you, it’s dark in here.

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

It devours itself and spits itself out, kills itself and generates itself again.9:00 am

Buck likes to dress in front of a poster of Oscar Wilde like it is a mirror.  Today he told off everything he put on for being stiff, rebellious, etc.  Wants puce gloves and green boots.  Not quite over Wilde and paradoxes no matter what he says.  And he thinks my hat is artsy.  Called himself Mercurial Malachi, that Mercurius that is made up of all conceivable opposites, a contradiction and I suppose it is one but not how he sees it.  He is vulgar mercury, hardly the anima mundi.  He is both creative and destructive, though, I give him that.  And he is solvent, despite what he pretends.

Met him what?

It must have fell down.9:00 am

Molly looks at me with the same young eyes as that first night when.  She saw a word in a book, “metempsychosis” and wanted to know what it means.  I told her it was an idea from Orphism, that it is the transmigration of souls.  Schopenhauer talks about it in The World as Will and Idea  but he sees it more as a dichotomy of will which persists (male, from the father) and intellect (from the mother) which does notThe Orphic idea has more poetry to it.  The soul is eternal and desires freedom, the body is finite and holds the soul captive.  It is a contract broken by death.  Death.  But the soul ends up reimprisoned in another body and so it goes.  Nice, no?  Beautiful, yes?  Well.  Anyway, I remember Schopenhauer said something like there is a contradiction in every individual existence because all that rises is worthy of being destroyed.  She mocked me with her eyes (young, a contradiction) and her response was O, balls! Tell me in plain words.

I want to and I wouldn’t like to

Who was the text from?8:57 am

Stale incense smell in the bedroom.  Doesn’t seem to bother Molly though.  Boylan coming to work on her show, she’ll be singing something from Don Giovanni with J.C. Doyle and some other sweet old song.  Gathered up laundry to do.  Her panties.  Voglio e non vorrei  socks, garters.  Voglio is that right?  Her clothes end up all tangled up together in the bed.  Altogether smells like foul flowerwater.  Warm, mingles with the fragrance of the tea.